Durch Blut und Eisen
by Jeva
Summary: Just what is the fate of a nation that no longer exists?  Warning: this fic may contain considerable amounts of historical inaccuries from 1192 to present day. Also includes something of RussiaPrussia and GermanyPrussia pairings
1. 1947

**1947**

_February 25th, 1947, the state of Prussia is abolished de jure by the Allied Powers. Russia, however, was a bit reluctant._**  
><strong>

.

He came back to awareness, coughing, sputtering, and shivering in the cold. Soaked to the bone by the water that had been haplessly tossed onto him—no, not hapless, as he came to realize when a pair of boots and the bottom of a long scarf slid into his vision. They should have registered some kind of familiarity in his mind, told him exactly who it was, but the shock of the cold and of the stench of the filth that began to make itself known to his senses blurred and muzzled his sight, his thoughts. A horrible retching sound came, falling into a helpless choke as one of those boots tipped his chin up.

Tall. Insanely tall. And big. The smile on the man's face more of a grimace as he took in the sight before him. It was only when the first sounds came from that large man's mouth, foreign and lilting, higher-pitched than one would think from someone so large, that the name finally clicked.

He tried not to cough as the toe of the boot shoved itself against his throat.

"Пoздрaвляю!" said the Soviet with as much enthusiasm as a child who'd found himself an unwilling playmate. The smile he wore next showed no warmth, only chilling cold that was fresh in their memories: Leningrad, Moscow, Stalingrad... "You're dead."

Prussia could feel his heart stop, or he wished he could but the cold numbed him from even that sensation. He did feel something try to fight its way past the pressure that boot was putting on his throat, however. To keep himself from choking again, Prussia put shaking, pale hands down against the ground—_filthy, bloodied, rotted_—and forced himself to push his weight off of the boot. He nearly cried out when pain registered itself all along his back but gritted his teeth, hissing harshly instead.

"Not... dead yet," he bit out as well as he could, even as his arms began to shake and tremble, fiery pain and numbing cold sapping them of strength.

Russia merely stared down at him, cocking his head to the side as though the German was a small puzzlement. "But I'm sure that's what we decided," he said after a long moment. "Prussia is no more. All that's left are pieces of his land, scattered and given away. Mostly to me. Though his brother was able to keep some of it."

"Bastard..." hissed Prussia who supposedly was no more.

And as though realizing this fact, Russia allowed his boot to drop, nearly having the other man fall back to the ground without support. The large nation then squatted down, sitting back on his haunches, continuing to watch as the German struggled to keep himself up. "Say," said the Soviet quietly, voice sounding almost innocent, "if Prussia is dead, who are you?"

Trembling now with cold fury, the other man attempted to shout, "I'm not fucking dead!"

It was barely a hoarse whisper.

"Ah... but you can't be Prussia, can you?" The laugh in that voice only made not-Prussia shake more with suppressed rage. "Say, do you know? It's been two years since the War. Or maybe you didn't know. Didn't you know? Königsberg is gone. That's why you've been asleep so long."

Somehow the other man managed to lift his head enough to lock scarlet eyes with detached, deadened violet. Shock, dismay, horror, and outrage all went through his body, trembling and shaking from the realization. The pain in his back flared, throbbed and pulsed almost as his heart should have but didn't, and he collapsed back into the filth, gasping, unable to make a sound.

Russia continued to watch, merely watch. "Oh, you didn't know, did you? You remember, right? You failed to evacuate them all in time, didn't you? Just like Leningrad." Something heavy came upon not-Prussia's head—a gloved hand—running through his hair in what would have been a soothing gesture. Then, it paused, fingers tightening around those pale locks. "Ah, and we lay siege to it. England bombed it first. And then the Red Army swept in..."

"You _bastard_," was all the German could manage, tearing his voice from throat, nearly a sob but lacking the tears in his eyes to make it so.

"Eh..." said Russia faintly, studying his prey. For that's exactly the kind of look he wore. The detachment of a predator, knowing he'd already won the battle. "Does it hurt? Don't worry. I can make it better. I plan to rebuild. Kaliningrad. How does that sound?"

The weakened man made no response, simply trembling in numbed fury.

Two years after it was all over.

There was nothing he could do to change what was happening. It had already happened, was already happening.

That hand relaxed in his hair, carded through it despite the filth matting it down, pulling tangles out roughly as they went. "What should I call you then, if Prussia's dead?" wondered the Soviet idly.

"Why... am I here, if I'm supposed to be dead?" His voice was flat, all emotion numbed with the realization of what the cost of failure had been. The realization that he'd made the same goddamn mistake that Corsican bastard did way back when. The realization that he'd _tried _to prevent it from happening—at least some part of him had.

"It's odd, isn't it?" said Russia with a bemused laugh, though his hand proved to show that his cold fury had not left as his enemy's had. Not nearly even a bit. "The others want you dead. They think you are dead. They are content to take care of that other one. He's younger, not as stubborn, adaptable, they say. They can show him the ways that his brother taught him was all wrong. Say, what should I call you now, Dead Prussia?"

Again, the other man said nothing. Didn't know what to say. Abandoned by the rest of the world, written off as... what? The war-monger? Just how had his teachings been wrong? Trapped between empires the way they had been since his formation... was there another way other than what he'd been doing?

Of course not. He'd learned that time and time again. They should've known. They should've _all _known—

Those fingers pulled on his hair, lifting his head so that his eyes could meet the Soviet's again. There was a small frown on the large nation's face, though it seemed less to do with his prey and more to do with the silence that came from him.

"No? You surrender too easily, Dead Prussia."

That name made him grit his teeth and spit out hoarsely, "Not fucking _dead_!"

Seeming genuinely surprised, Russia blinked and laughed. "You do still bark!"

"I still bite," warned the German lowly, drawing his lips back tightly, clenching his teeth together.

Russia laughed again, letting his other hand reach down to pat his pale hair. "No, no, tovarishch. You should not begin a new living by biting the hand that will feed you."

If the other man still had a heart, somewhere, even among the ruins of his beloved, ancestral city, it would have frozen at those words. As it was, that one word was enough to bring a chill down his spine.

Tovarishch. Comrade.

"I'm not one of yours," he hissed out, almost desperately.

Again, Russia went quiet and watched him, head cocking slowly to the side. "Hm? But I have a problem, you see," he began lightly, adjusting his hold on the other man's head so his free hand had him by the chin, bending his neck back until it hurt. "The land that I have... the piece of Germany that is mine. You would think that another would have shown up by now, since it's a new one, wouldn't you?"

The supposedly dead nation held his breath, swallowing thickly at the implications.

"Say, Dead Prussia," said Russia quietly, "is it because you're alive that no one's showed up?"

He didn't dare taking a breath even to answer, simply staring up at Russia whose violet eyes stared right through him. Even when his lips traced themselves into a smile again, his eyes remained dim.

"If that's why, then you're part of that land, yes? Then, you are mine."

Red eyes closed, shielding themselves from the possessive look that began to enter in those deadened orbs. "Thought I'm supposed to be dead," was the dull response.

"But you just said you weren't~" said Russia with a bit of a whine. Fake, fake as hell. As it went to prove when he continued in his normal tone, "Ah, you need to make up your mind, Dead Prussia."

"Stop calling me that!"

"What should I call you then?" the question came again. "You don't like your name anymore? Say, Dead Country, what should I call you?"

The German began to shake again, knowing that Russia hadn't planned at all to get his input on what his name should be. Just dangling that option before him, ready to take it away the moment his prey reached for it. Bait. An entrapment. Part of which he'd already fallen into, his name being taken away the moment he'd said he didn't want it.

But the "Dead" stayed.

Because everyone thought he was, didn't they?

"I'm not..." he struggled to say, but there was something choking him again, caught in his throat.

"Hm? 'Not'?"

He gasped for breath, trying to swallow down the lump there. "I'm not fucking _dead_, you bastard!" he tried again to shout, and again it came out as nothing more than a harsh whisper.

Only his teeth striking home into the other country's leather-covered hand showed just how much he meant his words.

Complete and utter silence, still as those days of winter in Russia, those days he'd fail to take any of the three cities, came then. He did nothing to break the silence, simply burying his teeth in further, tightening his hold on Russia's hand. Silence rang in his ears.

Then the sound of shifting cloth alerted him to movement. He braced himself for the blow sure to come—

And blinked his eyes open when the hand in his hair loosened, began to stroke the pale locks.

Confused by this, his eyes followed that arm to the trunk it was attached to and then on up to that face. A smile sat on Russia's face. A simple, childlike smile that, somehow, had found its way into those dim eyes of his that had shown absolutely nothing toward the other man until now. Now, Russia looked down at him... as an owner would their pet. Even one as bad-mannered as to bite his master.

"Say, Dead Country," said the Soviet quietly, and the German tightened his jaw around the hand he'd latched onto, shaking for a reason unknown to him, "does it hurt?"

He didn't respond, couldn't. His jaw seemed locked into place.

"I ask," began Russia again, a lower timbre entering his soft voice, arm tensing just slightly, "if biting the hand that will feed you hurts you, Dead Country."

He didn't expect a slight flexing of the arm to be as powerful as it was, pulling him along by the grip he had on the gloved hand and slamming him hard into the stone wall beside him. His head struck first, made him clench his teeth more, a sound of pain coming from his throat as the rest of him followed, back-bare, pained, throbbing, fiery hot-striking next. Cold stone and grit dug into his wounds—open and sore and something hot leaking out of them the same way it was from his head.

He only managed to keep his hold until the third time his back met the wall, mouth opening in a scream that came out more as a yelp. Crumpling to the ground, panting harshly, sight threatening to split on him and blurring at random intervals, he lay there.

And Russia simply watched.

Ignoring his possibly pained hand, he remained crouched, leaning over slightly to sigh at the German. His hand then reached out and stroked his pet's hair once more.

"I don't want to hurt you," said Russia in what could have been a pained tone, but that could have been the concussion making the German's hearing fade in and out. "I know you were not the one who thought of that operation. It was that man, wasn't it? Your brother's boss? And you tried to get rid of him, didn't you? I know, I know. I tried the same, but they always come back, you know. And why did you do it, I wonder. Was it for your benefit? Your people's? You've always been so opportunistic, Dead Country..."

Dazed, gasping and curling up in pain, even as it stretched the wounds on his back, the former German nation could only give a small noise.

Russia leaned closer still, obviously straining his ear to listen. "Eh? What is it you're saying? Are you crying? Do you cry for yourself? Your people?

"Or are you crying for your brother?"

The cold note in his voice made the former nation cringe inwardly, shudder outwardly. Unfocused as he was, however, he could only mouth his brother's name, a dull ache in him that he'd yet to acknowledge.

Russia scooted himself forward, closer, hand still petting and keeping well away from the other's mouth. "But you know. He's one of the ones that killed you, too," he said simply.

No answer came from his pet then, only the harsh breathing of one who struggled to maintain consciousness out of pure stubbornness, red eyes dully staring up at violet.

"Don't you remember?" asked the Soviet quietly, that childlike quality still there in his voice. "Your supposed marriage? That is what that man called it, wasn't it? But that's not what happened. Do you really do so much for that person, your brother who betrayed you? Forced you to the Eastern Front? Gave you the order to kill indiscriminately? Left you to be chased back to Berlin... all alone? Do you want to see that brother?"

Again, there was no response.

A sigh broke the heavy silence, thick with the scent of blood. "You will learn, tovarishch. Don't worry. I will take care of you. Give you back what that brother and his friends took."

Through the pain and the fog of looming unconsciousness, something rang wrong with that promise. Something... something he could almost grasp but it slipped through his fingers. It hurt to think. It hurt to breathe. It hurt. Hurt.

"Say, tovarishch, does it hurt?" Hands trailed over him, fabric rubbing against abused and neglected skin until the German felt himself being lifted, cradled. Then, more movement came, and that voice, so much closer with violet eyes staring down at him with a strange, alien fondness that didn't make any sense, said simply, "I will make the pain stop for you."

He lost awareness shaking, bloodied, and soundlessly whispering his brother's name while surrounded by the warmth of his enemy's arms.

.

.

.

* * *

><p>- Leningrad, Moscow, and Stalingrad were the three major cities in Soviet Russia targeted by the German offensive. Despite laying siege for 872 days, the Germans never in fact won the city of Leningrad. As quoted from Wiki: "The siege lasted 872 days from September 1941 to January 1944. The Siege of Leningrad was one of the longest, most destructive, and most lethal sieges of major cities in modern history. It isolated the city from most supplies except those provided through the Road of Life across Lake Ladoga, and more than a million civilians died, mainly from starvation."<p>

In comparison, the battle of Moscow was lost due to lack of proper equipment for the harsh conditions of Russian winter in addition to the Russian's well-layed offensive-defense. Stalingrad proved to be the turning point of the war, despite the fact that the Germans were successful in reducing the city to rubble before they were expelled from the region.

- Königsberg was the final part of the East Prussian Offensive in which Soviet troops at first lay siege to the city (following bombing by British air raid in August 1944) from January 1945 to April 1945. Tactics were then changed to direct assault April 6th, 1945 when there were no signs of surrender from the German forces. Königsberg was finally captured April 9th, 1945 by Soviet troops and remains in Russian territory as the city of Kaliningrad.

- The operation Russia mentions is Operation Barbarossa, the code-name for the Nazi plans to invade the Soviet Union that commenced June 22nd, 1941. It is also this invasion that led to the Soviet Union's joining the Allies against the Germans during WWII.

- Russia also alludes to the Preußenschlag, one of the first major steps toward the end of the Weimar Republic and the rise of Nazi Germany. Of course, the way Russia mentions it is not entirely accurate and is more for turning one brother against the other.

- товарищ (tovarishch), also known more commonly to English speakers as "Comrade", the address most socialist and communist parties use in order to maintain neutral titles.

- Пoздрaвляю!, translated as "Congratulations!" Obtained from a Concise Oxford Russian Dictionary.

- And finally, for the title. We can thank Otto von Bismarck:  
>"Nicht durch Reden und Majoritätsbeschlüsse werden die großen Fragen der Zeit entschieden — das ist der große Fehler von 1848 und 1849 gewesen — sondern durch Eisen und Blut."<br>_Not by speeches and votes of the majority, are the great questions of the time decided — that was the error of 1848 and 1849 — but by iron and blood._

... yes, I am using the irony of the Iron Curtain. Hurhurhur.


	2. 1949

**1949**

_October 7, 1949, the German Democratic Republic is founded._**  
><strong>

.

"What does that commie bastard want this time?"

"You should know better than to call him that. Even if he's been more than disagreeable in some points—"

"And that's putting it lightly! After what happened this year, he shouldn't _have _any right to enter discussions—"

"Oh, and it would be _your _bright plan to keep him isolated? That was such a brilliant idea during the onset of the War, you know."

"This isn't the War! This is—a totally different war!"

"... there really is no talking sense into you, is there?"

Germany gave a sigh, trying to tune out the two English-speaking nations, preferring to sit on one of the two couches set in the center of the large room, staring at the empty seats across from him. It was not as though the American did not have a fair point. More than just fair, it was accurate. After the escapades of blockading Berlin, forcing the western countries to use airborne aid to get supplies into the small regions, the Soviet had been suspiciously quiet. More than just that, but since Germany was recognized as the Federal Republic...

That could just as likely be the paranoia that had been running rampant since the War, though. The idea of red being splashed on every surface, collectivization, nationalization... threats to the ideal of democracy, is how America would scoffingly put it.

It was also as America said—an entirely different war. And again, it was a war that Germany was hopelessly caught in the middle of, a result of the cost of failure, the cost of having his lands separated between the Allies, the cost of losing his—no. No, it would not do any good thinking about that now. There were more important things to consider. That was, despite how he wished otherwise, over and done with. There was nothing he could do to change the Allies' final decision.

Even though he had not been able to fight against it when the time was at hand.

And even now, when the Anglo-French part of the Allies continued to insist it was for the best, Germany found himself miserably remembering all of the lessons he'd learned in his youth. He had been warned about his position on the map, had been told that he would perpetually be caught between empires, had been instructed how to fight back if such a time were to come again and he was threatened. The best defense was a strong offense, that is how it went, right?

Germany shut his eyes, trying to push the wound of the news of the death of his brother from his mind for what could have been the millionth time in the past two years.

"Mes amis, you should both try some of these hors d'œuvres~" spoke up the French counterpart to the trio that was left of the original Allies, completely ignoring the bickering going on between the brothers.

"Who's got time to think about food when there's a meeting about to take place?" demanded England, shooting his perpetual enemy a disgusted look. "Honestly, you wino, shouldn't you be more concerned? You're actually part of the damned continent."

"Mais oui. However, this does not mean I should not maintain my... sophisticated air, non?"

The smaller man shot to his feet, having been on Germany's left the whole while, angrily shouting back, "Are you calling me unsophisticated?"

Laughter came from America, who sat to Germany's right, as he lightly responded, "Well, yeah, England. You haven't really been all that graceful—"

"I don't want to hear that from a hick like _you_!"

"What? Hick? And after all the good things I've said about you—!" cried out America in dismay.

England shouted back, just as Germany decided it was a better idea to put his hands to his ears, "What good things? Also, I've been rebuilding, you ass! Of course there hasn't been time for any decadent things! Unlike this beardo, I have my priorities straight!"

"Your words, mon Angleterre, they still wound me so!" came the mock-injured cry from behind the couch.

"Then die. Die like the dog you are, you goddamn pervert—"

"Ah~ So lively!" broke in a new voice, sounding muffled to Germany's ears until he removed his hands and looked up. The others went silent also, tensing as the large nation made his way into the room, what looked to be a soldier trailing in behind him. The Soviet's smile was cheerful and calm as he looked over the western nations passively. "I have missed this kind of atmosphere. Many of my countries are so quiet!"

The silence stretched for a bit before America stood, waving England to sit back down, a pseudo-order that was obeyed with little thought as England pressed close to Germany.

"You know we all had to get out of our comfy beds for this kind of meeting?" was the first thing out of the American's mouth.

Tolerant sighs came from the English and French.

Germany just looked between the two superpowers of the world until his eye caught sight of that soldier once more. Puzzlement settled on his brow as he tried to get a better look, but with England pressing against him and America blocking his view, all he could see was the brown of the uniform and the black of the boots.

"Eh? You have time to take those kinds of luxuries? It's no wonder you can afford the time to bicker amongst yourselves," said Russia, tone polite but the insult obviously heard by his three former allies.

America put a hand to his hip while the other held itself out, waving about in a bored manner. Or was it nervous? "Look, let's just get on with this. You called us here. And it's starting to get cold outside—"

"Mmm... we were just talking about how nice it feels here," said Russia cheerfully before turning to glance over his shoulder at the soldier behind him. "Isn't that right, East?"

Again, the western nations seemed to freeze, only this time Germany was among them, eyes widening and back straightening as a painfully familiar voice answered smartly, "I've said it could stand to be a bit less miserable with all the goddamn rain."

The soldier then stepped up beside Russia, removing the hat that should have been out of practice to wear indoors—shouldn't he, above anyone else, know that?

England and France both shouted in outrage while America spoke out against the Soviet, "What the hell is this, Russia? We all agreed—!"

Germany could only stare in shock as a gloved hand ran itself through pale, ash blond hair, avoiding the wrappings that wound around pale forehead, and red eyes narrowed sharply at the western countries. His brother. Who he thought was dead, had been told was dead. He had been abolished just two years ago, hadn't he?

He did not spare Germany a look, simply standing there with his hands folding behind his back in a tense manner as he glared at his enemies.

"Agreed?" asked Russia after a beat, having allowed America the chance to finish saying just what they had agreed upon. He then glanced to the smaller man beside him, a hand clapping down on thin—so painfully thin compared to the large nation, Germany thought desperately to himself—shoulder. "Ah, but this is East. He is the one who belongs to the land I have. Introduce yourself, East."

And as if it were any simply any other order, the one Russia insisted on calling East responded, stating firmly, "Deutsche Demokratische Republik. The eastern counterpart to your capitalist west."

Something gripped at Germany's chest, or was that simply England putting a heavy hand on his shoulder to keep him still? He had not even thought to move. Air seemed a precious element that he was desperately trying to remember how to take in. He could only watch, frozen, as this horrible scene continued to play itself out.

America seemed determined to ignore the smaller blond in favor of furiously saying to the other super-power, "That territory is still part of _Germany's_. You can't just keep doing as you want with it!"

Silence came upon them again, and the only one who seemed minimally effected by it was the one called East. Even as the Soviet's hand seemed to clench tightly on his shoulder, he remained virtually expressionless. "Is that so? I have told you, America. I do not agree with this way of thinking. Your Germany is capitalist. Mine is not."

"Because you rigged the elections, isn't that right?" accused America severely, appalling his allies with his bold behavior.

Russia merely smiled back, though his hand remained tight on his companion's shoulders. "Would you prefer to take this discussion outside, America?" he asked pleasantly.

The English-speaking nation balked. Perhaps not visibly, but with the coldness of the words, the meaning was not to be misunderstood. To have a fight with Russia, especially after having avoided one for this long, after the blockade and the events before and after...

"Let's not be rash about this," said England, gripping Germany's shoulder himself before standing up, taking position behind America, providing that level-headedness the Brit could sometimes have. "We didn't come here to pick a fight. You said you wanted to discuss, so we're here to discuss. If... _he's_ want you want to bring to our attention, then you've done so, Russia. But I will not acknowledge it."

"Nor I," said France from his position safely behind the couch, an unpleasant tone to his voice.

Russia's East Germany made no movement, keeping impossibly still in a way that reminded Germany himself of the military achievements of his brother—this very brother who now stood before him as if a perfect stranger.

The large, northern country tilted his head to look past America and straight at Germany, making him straighten in his seat. "What about you, West? Do you ignore your brother also?" he asked, almost kindly except for how the question settled sickeningly in the other country's stomach.

Germany looked from Russia to his brother, studying him for a long moment before rising to his feet. Neither of the English-speakers said anything as he walked past them and found himself standing in front of the two eastern countries. The smaller German then turned his eyes to him, watching him sharply, almost suspiciously as well as... something else. He seemed to fall back against Russia's hand though Germany had not even done or say anything.

So small, was the one thing running through Germany's mind as he took in the sight of his brother for the first time in years. Now that he was able to have a closer look, he could see just how the uniform seemed to hang on him a bit, proving that he was not as filled out as he had been. Indeed, the wrappings about his head just went to prove to Germany that there was something terribly wrong with his brother, despite surviving the fate chosen by others.

Without thought, the larger German lifted a hand to reach out to his brother, shaking slightly as disbelief and relief and worry warred for dominance. "Bruder, you—"

A dull slap of pain across his wrist jolted him back to reality, where instead of acknowledging Germany's concern, his brother had raised his own hand to knock his western counterpart's away.

"Don't get sentimental, mein Bruder," said East with a bit of a smirk as Germany processed this shock. "We are, after all, standing on opposite sides. Acknowledge me as I am or don't. Either way, I'm here now and I don't plan to leave any time soon."

At a loss, Germany continued to stare at his brother for a moment longer before lowering his hand, clenching it at his side. Azure eyes turned toward the Soviet who continued to stand near, a fury in them that was ultimately the result of the War, the tensions at his borders, the blockade... everything up until this point. "What have you done to him?"

Silence greeted his demanded.

Then Russia laughed, an almost chiming sound that rang hollowly in Germany's ears. "Done? I have given him an identity," he said lightly, cheerful as he ever was.

Germany shook, keeping himself firmly planted where he was. He wanted to knock that look off the other's face but knew that now, more than ever, Russia was at his most dangerous. An act from Germany could be considered an act from the west and thus war. The one thing they were all sick to death of. Instead, he helplessly shouted up at the taller blond, "_What did you do to my brother?_"

Those violet eyes watched him, seeming amused, before they turned to look behind him—to America—and then over to his companion. "Ah. It seems as though West won't acknowledge you, either, East. A pity, yes?"

Germany froze at that and looked back over to his brother who said nothing, looked at no one. His jaw was tightened from what Germany could see, but he answered surprisingly lightly, "As if I care what capitalists think."

The western countries said nothing, could not say anything.

Just what does one say to a person they had determined to leave for dead?

Russia took his hand off of the smaller German's shoulder and clapped it together with its opposite. "Since that is settled, I believe it's time to go!" he said with youthful exuberance before turning to the one he called East, effectively ignoring the others. "Say, East, it's so nice out. We could even go for a walk, yes?"

Germany watched as his brother turned his attention to the Soviet and answered simply, "It might rain. Are you sure?"

"Mm," said Russia in affirmation, smiling as he shut his eyes for a brief moment. "I do enjoy the rain. It is so much better than snow, wouldn't you agree, East?"

The smaller would-be nation gave a sigh, sounding weary to Germany's ear. "If you say so," he agreed. Reluctantly. That's what that tone was, wasn't it? Certainly not entirely submissively.

"Then let us go!" Russia glanced over to the western countries and gave a bit of a wave. "We will see ourselves out the door. You have been... how do you say it in English? —ah! Most entertaining!"

Germany did not even have to look to know how many feathers were ruffled by this statement. His own hackles were rising with every word the Soviet spoke, despite knowing that it would do no good to react right there and then. Still, the thought of his brother leaving, and so soon, had him immediately reacting, moving to follow the two out the door. None of the others stopped him, possibly knowing the outcome before Germany himself did.

"Bruder, wait!"

They had not gotten far down the hall when he called for his brother's attention. The smaller would-be nation paused for a moment, glancing over to Russia, obviously asking permission to speak with his brother for a moment. This was a sight that left a horribly sour taste in Germany's mouth. Even worse was to see those violet eyes look sharply his way before turning away, giving a tolerant smile to his companion. Words formed on those lips, murmuring something to the smaller man as a hand raised to a cheek in a endearing manner.

Germany found himself clenching his fists, a cold grip in his chest tightening as he watched his brother then give a small nod and a quiet response. Promptly. Without argument. Submissively.

Surely his brother was merely following his role to keep good relations and no other reason, wasn't he?

The Soviet then turned and continued on his way down the hall, leaving the one he'd claimed to be East Germany behind. The smaller German stood still for a long moment before he straightened his shoulders and made his way to his supposed western counterpart, familiar grin on his face.

Germany realized just then as he approached, that his scarlet eyes in no way reflected the grin as they would have done in years past.

"What is it, West?" asked his brother in a fashion that was painfully familiar and relaxed. "You keep crying after me like a child."

Not sure what to say to that, Germany struggled to speak, "Bruder..."

"You keep calling and I keep responding." The eastern territory came to a stop before Germany, standing stiffly despite his more relaxed tone. "Still think you're seeing a ghost? I told you. I'm here, Bruder. And I don't plan on leaving any time soon, either."

Germany swallowed thickly, a hand raising to reach out only to hesitate, remembering how it had been struck the last time he had attempted to do so. He said, rather pathetically, instead, "I thought you were dead, Prussia."

There was an almost heart-stopping moment of tense silence.

"... Prussia _is _dead."

Taken aback by the answer, Germany took a step forward, hands gesturing to keep themselves from grasping the other man's uniform. "Don't say that when you're standing right in front of me—"

"The name 'Prussia' is dead and has been so for well over two years," said the one who had borne that name in short, clipped tones. "You should know that, West, considering your allies."

"My allies?" asked Germany incredulously. "Russia also took part in the talks if I'm remembering correctly—"

"I'm aware," interrupted the one now called East blandly.

"Then why ally with the Soviet?" demanded Germany, almost desperate to understand. "Bruder, that one has hurt you more than any other, for God's sake—"

"He's also the only one that'll have me!"

"To what end?" Without warning, the larger German reached out to put his hand against the bandages on his brother's head. The other man froze. "Bruder, you aren't well. You should be healed if he's taking care of you."

"Better off than dead," stated East flatly, flinching only for a split second before schooling his features into a firm and heavy frown.

Germany looked into those red orbs, trying to find some semblance of familiarity, but it was all lost under mire of emotions shifting through the other man. "You know I will always be willing to accept you, Bruder. But not like this. Not while you're being influenced by that—"

He stopped himself, noticing the narrowing of those eyes he was looking into.

Again, he found his hand being knocked away. Rejected as much as he had essentially rejected his brother.

"Don't you forget, West," gritted out East tightly, "you were the one who took my statehood from me first."

That statement hit like a blow to the gut. Germany barely managed to get out a small, "You know that wasn't me..." and knew it could never be enough.

East laughed. "No, you're right," he said, voice coming out more strained than it had been before, worrying Germany more. "It was that thriced godforsaken boss of yours and his ideas and everything else during that goddamned time! And then it was your allies, determining I was too militaristic, too authoritative. Well, they can all put this in their pipe and smoke it, the fucking assholes!"

"Bruder..." said Germany, becoming increasingly worried as the smaller man began to shake, and in no part did it seem to be from his righteous fury.

The other German ignored him, jabbing a finger at him but without actually touching him. "And they all have one singular thing in common, right? And that's _you_. Mein Bruder. Who sent me to the Eastern Front—!"

Alarm crept up Germany's spine as he watched his brother sway a bit, hands reaching out to support him. "Bruder, enough! You're not well—"

"I'm perfectly _fine_, damn you!" shouted East in a final show of bravado before Germany was forced to grab hold of him and press him to a wall to keep him from falling.

The cry of pain that came from the act very nearly had Germany release him to continue his fall, except his hands felt what his eyes had only begun to guess at. His brother was thin, painfully thin, odd angles poking into his grip even as the other man simply leaned into his hold, panting harshly. The cold hand in Germany's chest squeezed again as he quickly pulled his brother from the wall, a hand settling on his impossibly narrow back.

Another pained noise came from the smaller man, making Germany afraid to touch him anymore than he was.

"Mein Gott," he said hoarsely instead, not moving, frozen and staring down at East in near horror. "Bruder, mein Bruder, what's been done to you?"

A fist clenched into his suit, moving as if to shove him away but lacking the power behind the act to really achieve anything more. "W-what are you doing?" spat out East, though with less force than he may have wanted. "Let me go. Let me go, West!"

"No," said Germany, firm and controlled, attempting to shove down his fear so he could actually _do_ something in this situation. "You need rest. Food. Let me take care of you, Bruder, please."

That hand shoved at him again, but this only had East jerk back into Germany's other hand, making him hissed sharply in an exhale. "I don't have _time _for this. He's waiting outside."

There was an edge of desperation there, and it made Germany sick to hear it. There was also, however, shaken resolve which could easily break if he could just find the other man somewhere to sit. Perhaps go back to the other western countries and have them bring him something. Would they, though? He was a territory under Soviet control. They would not want to stick their necks out that far if it meant something could be misconstrued and-or seen as a threat to Soviet power...

Knowing there was something more than wrong with the other's back, Germany quickly put his hand to East's head, leaning forward to press his face into his pale hair. "Bruder, please," he said, voice softening. He could feel East trembling in his arms. "Please, just leave him there. Come back with me. You're not well, and he is not helping matters—"

A choking laugh interrupted him. So unlike the laughter of old, this was simply pained. Caught in a throat that was more than likely constricted to the host of emotions swirling through his brother. "That's... not how it works, West. You should know better."

He tightened his hold on his brother, feeling a sense of relief in hearing a more familiar tone, pained and saddened though it was.

"Bruder, you don't have to pretend around me," said Germany in a final bid for the other man's trust.

The fist in his suit tightened its grip. "He's watching," was the faint whisper that came then, barely a voice and understandably so. Germany resisted the urge to look around the supposedly deserted hall. Louder, East continued, "There's nothing—_pretend_ about this. Let me go, West. You're hurting me more than he has yet!"

Unsure if this was a ploy to further give the impression that his brother truly wanted to be away from him or if he was truly hurting him, Germany loosened his hold on the smaller would-be nation. He did not allow him to get too far, leaning forward to give East a loving, desperate, pleading kiss on the forehead.

"Please."

When the other German said nothing, did nothing, he kissed each eye which closed for him, something of a sigh escaping that too thin body which shook even more.

"Bruder..."

It was as though the facade cracked. Suddenly, his supposed eastern counterpart was pushing forward, lips crashing against his own, heated, desperate, hungry, pleading, pained, lonely, and yet still fearful and hesitant. Germany was nearly too shocked to respond but after a heartbeat, accepted the kiss and leaned into it, taking in all the tastes and flavors that seemed to come from it. And from this small act he was able to tell that, more than anything, his brother wanted to return to him.

Until, that was, a sound escaped the smaller man's throat and he gave one final shove, pushing Germany off of him, away from him. Caught off-guard, the western nation stumbled back, bewildered and eyes widening more as his brother braced his hands on his legs, breathing hard as though he'd run a marathon, thick coughs coming from deep in his chest. He reached out again, wanting to help.

"Don't—touch me!" shouted East as well as he could, winded and strained, choking out between the coughs. He then straightened himself, uniform mussed and tussled, giving a glimpse at thickly bandaged shoulders which likely covered the whole of his back, chest, and torso.

Germany could not find a single word to say, knowing that the distance between them was growing every moment.

A flush was on East's pale cheeks as he lifted the hat that had been clenched in one hand to his head, a hollow, breathy laugh coming from him as he hid his face. "How pathetic are we," he said, irony coming to his voice, quieted by his exertions. "Still fighting a war on this kind of front... Do me a favor, West. Keep to your side. I'll try to keep to mine."

And with that, he turned to leave, a stagger in his step that had not been there before.

Germany clenched his fists to keep himself from going after him again, only called out, "Bruder, why? Why him?"

East turned himself around, walking backwards and giving a hard laugh—closer to his old laugh but off-key, lilting and strangely foreign. "I said before, didn't I? He's the only one who didn't leave me for dead! Hate me if you want, West. But I'm not leaving this stage just yet. Let's see if your allies really care about this particular front or if they just leave it because they're that afraid of the big, bad wolf!"

The western side could only grit his teeth to keep from calling out again, knowing it was useless and that his brother would only continue on toward his sovereign nation.

And so he did, giving a bit of a mocking salute as he went.

.

.

.

Russia was crouched down beside a flower bed, staring with interest at the different colors that were still around even in early October. Though there wasn't much left to them, dying as the seasons changed. Maybe he would've found the leaves more interesting. The warm colors were definitely to his taste.

These were all the idle thoughts of East Germany as he stalked out of the building, back aflame and feverish, but still continuing walking step by step right up to his position beside the other nation. Russia didn't seem to notice him at all, instead contenting himself with plucking the dying flowers from their places, something England would loudly disagree with if he knew. And though his legs were shaking with the exertion it took to keep himself still, East remained planted where he was.

So they remained until a drizzle came down upon them.

Russia looked up at the darkened sky, a smile softer than his normal ones coming onto his face. "Say, East. Do you miss your brother?" he asked quietly.

Knowing hesitation could cost him more than an honest answer, he quickly and flatly lied in a hoarse voice, "Of course not."

The Soviet was quiet for a moment longer. "Say, East, do you miss your old name?"

"There's no use missing what can't be recovered," said East dully.

"Mmm..." hummed Russia before he pushed himself to his feet, turning to look at his satellite state, watching him closely. "Say, East, does it hurt? You look unwell."

Blinking rapidly as his vision suddenly clouded, the German answered thickly, "I'm more than fine, Russia, you should know that."

That heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder, purposefully sending jolting pressure down against him and his back, forcing him to stifle any sound of discomfort that threatened to come up. But the large country merely said in a soft, comforting tone, "Our walk will be short, yes? To the car. You look to need rest, tovarishch."

East tried so damn hard to keep from sagging in relief, but his shoulders slumped without warning. He leaned into the hand that went to his face, tired and hurting. "Thank you," he said, despite knowing that the walk to the car was already significantly long. It was a distance he knew he could travel before his legs would collapse from under him and find himself helplessly caught in those arms once more.

.

.

.

Germany returned to room, closing the door behind him with a heavy heart. He did not expect any of the western allies to do or say anything. After all, they probably could tell by his solitary figure that whatever talk he'd attempted with his brother had not gone well and, in fact, resulted in further separation between the two territories.

Even more, he did not expect for the three to crowd near each other, a telegram in hand, murmuring to one another and completely ignoring his presence altogether.

An uneasy feeling in his stomach, Germany made his way to the couches where the American and Brit sat with the Frenchman leaning over behind the couch. "What news?" he asked, not knowing what to expect.

All three looked up at him for a moment. Then, the two English-speaking nations exchanged looks just before America heaved himself out of his seat, taking hold of the telegram. He held it out to Germany, informing him with an uncertain look on his face, "There's a large number of refugees from the Soviet territory coming into your side. We think that's why he... looked pretty bad off."

Lead dropped into Germany's stomach as he came to understand just what his brother had meant when he had claimed Germany had been hurting him. He refused to take the telegram. "We can provide for them, can't we?"

"Of course," answered America, posture relaxing and a reassuring smile coming onto his face. "That's what heroes do, right?"

England spoke up from the couch, catching the two's attention, "Don't make light of this, you idiot."

"Wha—hey, why are you calling me an idiot now?" demanded America with a pitiful edge nearing a whine to his tone. Germany, however, kept his eyes on the Brit as he pushed himself to his feet, hand going to his hip as he frowned heavier, thick eyebrows furrowing.

"The emigration may very likely begin to increase," he stated simply. "Russia's been showing signs of going back to his old, pre-War days. No one would want to stay on that side of the Curtain if it follows that pattern."

Germany stood there, stunned for a moment. "Then... preparations?"

"We'll help you out there, don't worry," said America reassuringly.

"But what of my brother? Too much of a significant loss like that..."

A moment of silence came upon them, only to be broken by a small laugh coming from the nation who remained standing behind the couch. England visibly twitched at the sound, turning and asking pointedly, "What are you laughing about, frog-eating bastard?"

France waved his hand airily, a hard smile on his face, though his voice was light. "Ironic, non? I have also heard that the Soviet's satellite territory is where he gains money for war reparations. How much do you think that will cut into the budget? 20 percent, peut-être?" He didn't wait for someone to attempt answer a plainly rhetoric question, though America opened his mouth to make an attempt. "The economy is not stable in the east, the people are leaving. His attempt to survive will end up starving him of what keeps him alive. Quel futile!"

The Frenchman looked straight at Germany when he finished, eyes darkened with grim justification, "It would have been better if the Soviet had done away with him. No need to suffer then, non?"

Before Germany could determine if he could manage to throw a punch in time or not, America gripped him by the shoulder while England answered heatedly, "Yes, yes. We're all aware of that fact, but those two have always been stubborn. They'll find a way to keep him stable. Don't underestimate them. That territory will be a thorn in our side the same way he always was, just you watch."

"Quelle bête," muttered France, running a hand through his hair as he thought it over.

"Anyway," broke in America, voice always comparatively lighter to the others' and yet now possessed a harder edge, "we'll have to screen the refugees to see if there's any Soviet spies among them."

"Spies?" asked Germany, less surprised by the notion and more surprised that America would be the one to bring up the matter.

A sharp grin came onto the American's face. "Communism's objective is to spread, right? That's its nature. Plant one communist in a sea of millions and you've got a million communists."

"That—" The look the superpower threw his way made Germany quickly shut his mouth, distinctly uncomfortable with the ideas suddenly being expressed. Though the ideology did, indeed, promote such things, the way in which it was stated rang horribly familiar in Germany's mind.

Then, without warning, America was smiling brightly again, clapping the large German on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it so much. We got your back. We're not letting Russia get any further than he already has with this."

Hesitant, Germany nodded. "All right," he said, mind already turning to the refugees that would need taking care of. "Thank you."

.

.

.

* * *

><p>- England mentions a time where the Soviet Union was isolated from discussions, by which he means important agreements such as the Munich Agreement where-in the West gave concessions to Hitler and allowed the Germans to take the Sudetenland which ran along the borders of Czechoslovakia, which Hitler soon after invaded and subdued with little interference from the West. This resulted in growing distrust toward the West by the Soviets, who had been attempting to make relations with them. It also ultimately led to the German-Soviet Nonaggression Pact.<p>

- The Federal Republic of Germany (Bundesrepublik Deutschland), or more commonly known today as West Germany, was founded in May 1949. It is noted that while the German Democratic Republic (Deutsche Demokratische Republik), or East Germany, (founded October 1949) "recognized the existence of two German nations and states de jure, and the West as both de facto and de jure foreign nation", the FR saw the GDR "as a de facto government still within a single German nation that in turn is represented de jure by the West German state only."

- The Berlin Blockade was the first major international crisis of the Cold War, beginning with the Soviet lock-down of Western Berlin in June 1948 and ending after the successful Berlin Airlift effort proved to make the point moot in May 1949.

- Beginning in the late 1940s and continuing through the erection of the Inner-German Border in 1952 until the erection of the Berlin Wall in 1961, East Germany will lose 20% of its population as people fled to the west. This mostly included the members of the youth and of the intelligentsia, creating an economic vacuum in the service industry as well as a "brain drain" that also heavily effected the economy.

- As France states, a large part of the economic strain were the war reparations the Soviet Union took from the GDR's national budget. While France is exaggerating the percentage, the fact that the Soviet Union also took about a third of industrial equipment East German territory in the beginning days of occupation, causing addition strain on the economy. (This information is mentioned here.) This, along with increasing labor demands and inflation without the benefit of salary raises, will eventually lead to the Uprising of 1953.

- McCarthyism, or the Second Red Scare, made its start in the late 1940s in the United States. It will continue on through the late 1950s with thousands of Americans being accused (without sufficient evidence) of being involved with the communists and working as spies for the Soviets.

- The Iron Curtain was the term Churchill used in context of the Soviet-dominated Eastern Europe. Similarly, the American policy of Containment came as a result of the fear of the spread of Soviet-influence communism.

- "Russia's been showing signs of going back to his old, pre-War days." - This line is more of a result of the lectures I had in my Russian History course. During WWII, Stalin had relaxed a large amount of the restrictions put in place in order to further promote and sustain the war effort. After the War, however, he began to reinstall the restrictions and tight control over nationalization, anti-religious campaigns, censorship in intellectual and artistic life, and ideology governing science. He also became increasingly paranoid of "contamination" of western influence in addition to growing anti-semitism which results in the Doctors' Plot. This led most people to fear the coming of another period of Purges, but Stalin died in 1953 before that fear could be confirmed or proven false.

If any of this information is wrong or maybe just slightly off-target, feel free to correct me!


	3. 1953

**1953**

_On June 16, 300 East Berlin construction workers went on strike..._

.**  
><strong>

It had started in Berlin.

If anything, East was finding himself to hate the city more and more with every passing year. A large part of the reason could be because of how it was still divided between the Western Powers and the Eastern Bloc. The city that had become his second capital was torn apart, might as well have been torn to the ground like his Königsberg. Worse than this, it was here that people were finding their escape to West, despite the measures taken the year before.

A border lay between East and West. Something that he never bothered to hear how his western counterpart felt about it. He'd been too busy dealing with the cost of erecting the inner border. The economy buckling yet again left him scrambling to adjust. The border would hopefully keep the people from leaving, or at least not leaving as quickly as they had been. It has been a desperate idea that Russia and his boss had approved and overseen, especially when discussion with the Westerners failed.

East had struggled to keep from looking over the barbed wire fences to his brother's land the whole while.

With his own power, he'd put up that wall, maintained it, guarded it.

And still people left.

Just that year, twice the number crossed the border in the first half of the year. Even more still as Russia became more and more paranoid. East had often found himself, among the others, eyed with deep suspicion and spite. He'd also found himself, more often than not, be asked the same questions over and over. "Say, East. Do you want to visit your brother? Say, East. Do you like the west? Say, East. Why do your people keep leaving?"

And East didn't know why. Or he did but refused to acknowledge it. Russia had said he would look after him, had said he'd help him. And yet, East found himself and his people working themselves to the bone, scraping to get by, unable to complain as men in uniform stood watch and men not in uniform weeded out dissenters.

There were a number of them, and East couldn't feel more sorry for the poor bastards that were caught. He had more to worry about, however. Because that year, Russia's boss died. Assassinated, whispered those who dared to; stroke, said the more sensible people with a shrug and a knowing look. However it happened, the man was dead and they all felt that they could breathe a sigh of relief.

Except Russia had been quiet, too quiet. His bosses had quickly scrounged up someone to take the reins but how long it would last and if they would continue that man's system was unknown.

East buried his head in working out his own troubles, trying to ignore the failed attempts to cross the border.

It seemed that doing so only brought more problems.

Russia came by in the summer, seeming delighted with the shadows of suspicion falling away from his violet eyes as he spoke, "Big happenings, East! Big happenings. You will help us make it happen, yes?"

Tired, sore, and sick—he loathed just how weak he'd gotten, struggled to fix it but found himself leaning more and more against that large hand that always settled on his shoulder. So, using the Soviet's support, East had answered, "Of course, Russia," as was expected of him.

And then he was told of the budget.

His legs nearly buckled at the news.

Russia continued smiling down at him, babbling on about something or another but East couldn't hear. Words and their meaning escaped him as he stared vacantly at those violet orbs. Could he really be that cruel? There wasn't any chance that Russia was not aware of the impact this would make. Nor could he be unaware of the state East was in right then and there.

East felt like tearing his hair out, felt like grabbing the nearest heavy item and slamming against the monstrous country's skull again and again and again until this northern creature finally _felt _something. Then, he'd heard of the workers in Berlin, crying out in protest, demonstrating, hurling insults and some even scrambling even faster to get out of the Eastern Bloc. And East wanted to join them, wanted to leave the nightmare behind.

He stayed, watched and listened as what could probably considered a bloodbath took place in front of him. Soviet soldiers... his own soldiers... tanks bulldozing their way through the city, quelling the growing crowd in a show of force.

The whole while, Russia had simply watched him.

East shouldn't have _ever _taken his eyes from the Soviet, and yet, he'd done that and worse—he'd turned away from the scene, falling to his knees and found himself heaving, feeling himself torn in two. It must have been then that Russia had come up behind him.

All he could remember was the sharp pain lancing through his skull before he hit the ground. The silver gleam of that steel pipe glinting high above him as he struggled to get his bearings.

East didn't even feel the impact of the second blow, vision fading out as it descended.

.

.

.

Hot copper was in his mouth, and East came to consciousness, body convulsing as his forcibly tried to expel the taste until he was heaving and gagging dryly. Fingers dug into the ground—earthen and outdoors, he dizzily realized—as he struggled to pull himself up.

The wet movement of a rib rubbing near a lung had him gasping, trembling, vision threatening to go dim again.

A lilting song that whispered into his ear was the only thing that kept him conscious. Like a drowning man, he mentally clung to the song, trying to discern the words, their meanings, but they all escaped him. Only that language that left him cold with realization despite the effort it took to make the connection remained his sole companion just before he found himself staring at Russia's boots once more. This time, accompanied only by the spigot the Soviet had lovingly taken care of for decades.

On a particular note, Russia lifted that pipe before bringing it's bottom end savagely down on East's hand.

Bones cracked and split and broke free from their placements while the territory cried out in pain.

Not seeming satisfied with this, the Soviet did once more.

And once more, East felt more than saw his vision fade toward a darker edge, his opposite hand gripping white-knuckled to whatever clod of dirt he could get a hold of.

"Ah, East," said Russia, breaking his song in order to sigh tolerantly down at him. East struggled to keep himself breathing, to keep from crying out again as pressure was added to the pipe's end. "And you seemed to have been doing so well! Did you know, East? You're one of the more capable ones of mine. So why, East. Why would you and your people start to work against me? I only want what is best for you."

The German grit his teeth, a deliriousness that probably fell on him through the pain making him feel more like his old self as he started to laugh. "Best for me?" he found himself saying, red eyes turning upward to catch those distant violet ones that stared down at him as they always did. "You want to—fucking _kill_me. Nice and slow. Is that... right?"

A stillness came then just before Russia lifted his pipe once again.

East cringed, but no blow came.

Not until he began to relax.

Then the head of the spigot slammed down into his back.

An honest and true scream of pain tore from his throat, choking itself there as his ribs shifted, as that one poked and rubbed more and more against that lung. His head spun, and he pressed his face into the dirt, struggling to remember how to breathe again but almost not daring to.

The second blow kept him from curling in on himself, resulting in a choking sound that might've been a cry just before Russia calmly said, "You should not have said that, East. I honestly do not want to hurt you."

_Bullshit_, was the only word that managed to make it past the hazy fog that was East's thoughts after he was allowed a moment longer than before to recover. Allowed because Russia was still watching him, expecting him to say something, but even East wasn't stupid enough to give him more reason to damage him. Things were bad enough, his people being subdued by Russia's—by his own—God, what was happening and why did everything suddenly lose sense and meaning?

The rib digging into softer tissues as well as the throbbing pain along his back and his hand nearly had him pass out, but they also were the reason he was able to keep consciousness. Clenching his good hand into the dirt, he grabbed at the toe of Russia's boot, knuckles going white as he tried to breathe without having that rib puncture his lung.

Distantly, he realized that Russia was kneeling next to him, hands moving over his breaking body—not broken, never fully broken, he thought desperately to himself when he was able—pulling at him. Sounds of pain, maybe screams, East couldn't remember, tore from him as he was forced to his feet. No strength to keep him on his feet, Russia merely held him, hand petting his hair again while the other dug savagely into East's back. Whatever the satellite state did in response, he couldn't remember, just that he clung to the Soviet's suit, pressing himself against the other man even as his ribs and hand protested more.

Somehow or another, words managed to make it past the pain, drilling into his skull so he'd never forget them.

"Do you know why your back is like this?" questioned the Soviet, childlike voice entirely absent. It was just the cold fury of the monstrous nation who'd taken on the entire Eastern Front of the War nearly on his own. That hand dug its fingers more into East's back as he answered himself, "Because you turned and ran from me, Dead Prussia. You starved my people, raised my cities to the ground, killed millions... and then turned and ran. First to your city. Then to Berlin. To your brother.

"Do not try to run from me a second time, East."

The hand at his head pulled at his hair, pulling him back and biting savagely at his lips before the German could even begin to think of what he would be doing. The smell and taste of blood nearly had East sick. Blood and iron and earth and rot—the smells and tastes of war that he'd started to grow to hate.

The sound of protest he made came without thinking.

The Soviet responded by yanking his head further back and digging his large digits into the wound that East was beginning to think would never heal. Protests were thwarted just as done with his people in Berlin, in the outlaying cities and towns and villages. Ruthlessly, without debate. Worst yet, East found himself willing to just give up the fight, shaking and dazed with pain as Russia held him up, forced him to stay on his feet as he reminded the German just _who_ was the one in charge.

As soon as Russia even slightly lightened up his hold, East found himself whispering hoarsely, "Stop. It hurts—it _hurts_."

He tried pushing against the monstrosity but found himself lacking the strength as the Soviet breathed into his ear, "Are you trying to run to your brother again, East?"

The reminder of his brother, just on the other side of that barbed wire fence—they were at the border, weren't they? Fuck Russia, fuck him and his torment, his taunting—was almost too much.

If East could feel whatever heart he had these days, it would have broken at the sound of the voice that carried itself past the border.

"Bruder!"

The cry was so close. So fucking close.

But the sight of his brother was blocked by the blood-spotted suit and scarf the Soviet wore. Still, he made an attempt to move, to look around the large nation for just a look—a glance, that was all. Or, at least, he _thought _of making an attempt. Either way, something gave away his thoughts and those arms tightened painfully around him, crushing him, keeping him immobile with pain.

God help him, he tried to keep silent.

A soft shushing noise came above him, followed by some of those lilting, foreign words which were becoming so much more common these days of red and blurred work and toil. Their meaning escaped him, however, as everything seemed to stop making sense finally, and he struggled. As much as he could, in spite of the injury he put on himself as his lungs burned for air, as that rib dug in more and more, choking him, he fought back.

It wouldn't make a difference. Not a damn bit of difference. His people would be subdued. They would run—leave him—and the system would crack down just as those arms seemed determined to have what solid bones he had crack.

And he, he would follow that system. To survive, to live, he'd do whatever it took, even if it meant this hell. This he knew, even as he found himself wanting to cry out for that brother he'd shoved ever further and further from himself. To keep him away, safe, away from this hell that was survival.

For now, he fought against that system. Cried out against the injustices. Struggled and defied the one who held him, as the Soviet had said he would from the beginning, just to remind himself and others that he fucking _could_.

That was, at least, until everything began to spin, darken, and finally, fade away from him altogether.

.

.

.

Germany didn't say anything while everyone around him muttered and whispered. Hands to his face, he tried to put the other western countries from his mind, caught in a mire of thoughts that seemed to focus in on the silence from the Eastern Bloc. There was no news of what had happened after the 17th. He'd heard nothing of what had happened after the scene he'd witnessed along with there rest of his country. Whenever he looked in the mirror, he could see the gray tone to his skin that had come upon him while he watched the scene of chaos and carnage.

East had fought. Fought hard against the Soviet and his forces, but it was futile. If anyone would know how futile it was, East would have.

And still he had fought, lost, and continued to lose more and more as people fled to West through Berlin.

The Eastern Bloc was so silent, and yet, Germany could swear he heard similar cries of futile fury coming from thin, silent forms. Injured ad hungered, painfully thin and horrible to look at, the same as his brother, those countries kept to themselves, not daring to do more than glance over at their western counterparts.

And the West—a least those not near the Iron Curtain—refused to meet their eyes, looking farther east instead. They were ore concerned about the countries who weren't already behind the red curtain.

Lost, Germany thought to himself nearly laughing at the idea. Even though their people continue to defect, to flee, those of the Communist Bloc were lost to them. Eaten by the hungry wolf.

But if Russia was the wolf of the East, what did that make his rival, his western counterpart America?

The door opening made Germany's heart jump. He lifted his head and quickly looked to see who would enter.

He nearly cried out in dismay when he saw Russia closely following behind the smaller German territory. On his feet, hand splinted and wrapped, East quietly made his way to his compatriots who seemed almost to wince if they looked at him out of the corner of their eyes. None of them met each others' eyes, however.

Still, Germany watched East closely, studying the way he held himself. Stiff, shoulders tense, and eyes hard—it was obvious that he was in pain. And not just that, but he breathed shallowly, quickly. Broken ribs, more than likely. Lines seemed to etch their way into the pale figure's face as he paused in front of his seat.

He looked old. Much older than he should.

And Germany bit back any and all protests much the same way East probably literally bit back a sound of pain as that heavy hand clamped down upon his shoulder. He silently watched as his brother obediently sat, chest struggling to get in more air but largely unable to as he closed his eyes, face going gray and a sickening greenish color.

East's neighbors tossed him glances, silent except for Poland's quiet, "You're not, like, gonna be sick, right?" which was surprisingly caring despite the two's turbulent history. Germany almost swore the grimace on his brother's face was colored with his old, cocky smirk as he muttered a German curse back at the Pole. The dirty look he got in return was almost like those of old.

Russia moved to seat himself, ignoring the small exchange as it did not seem to be very threatening despite what Germany knew of his dislike of his satellite states communicating too much.

The western countries focused in on the matter at hand, which of course meant Russia and Russia's ambitions and Russia's expansion. Which meant heated and icy cold voices arguing back and forth about how thing should be done.

Those western countries at the border, like Germany, could only sit and watch; and if they were lucky, exchange glances with those they knew before the world was split into two.

East never once looked over to the West during that time. Not for the next dozen years, as far as Germany knew.

.

.

.

A hand squeezed East's and he tiredly looked over to see Hungary watching him, hazel eyes hard and yet uncertain. He could understand why. Even after being allies for the past two wars, it was still hard to acknowledge worry and concern for the other. Or at least, openly. And touch was the easiest way to communicate when words—simple, easily manipulated words became a danger.

He squeezed her fingers as much as he could, determined to not let his weakness show too much.

The way her lips twitched downward and the corners of them struggled to keep from letting the expression become more of a frown showed that even his strongest was still pathetically weak. So East turned his hand in hers to get a better grip, telling her to stop fucking worrying, he'll make it through, damn the consequences!

Her lips struggled to keep neutral still as she turned her eyes toward the western nations.

East didn't look, couldn't. He knew exactly who she was looking for, and he knew exactly who he would look for if he followed her gaze.

Instead, he dug his fingers into her skin. No real message came to mind as he did this; an old hurt, an old rivalry maybe, but he wouldn't deny her the chance to look for whoever she felt the need to see. But there was a warning in it. He knew exactly what was going through Hungary's mind as she looked across the divide between east and west. Things were bad now, but maybe things would get better. Adapt, survive, keep your head down, and don't fuck up because the cost was nearly too much.

The way she slackened her own grip showed exactly what she thought of that idea. And the way her eyes turned to narrow at him spoke volumes.

_You're not the country I knew you as, _the looked said.

East took the blow as well as he did any other these days and just stared pointedly back at her, red eyes hard and determined.

_I'm surviving one way or another and fuck whoever tries to say otherwise, _he tried to say in the clench of his jaw.

Her glare and the pull of her hand showed exactly what she thought of that. Coward. Soviet Dog. Opportunist and backstabber as ever.

East felt his own temper burn out at that, gave one last squeeze of her fingers before letting go. Now, he refused to look over to her, refused to acknowledge her own indignation. Instead, East stared at the back of Russia's head, letting the tense English being hurled around the room wash over him as he tried not to think or to look at anyone else.

Despite himself, however, East began considering ways to make improvements without having the Soviet's wrath falling on him again. Stalin had been dead for months. It was entirely possible something would improve. And if it didn't, he'd make it.

Three years later, East would squeeze Hungary's hand as lightly as he could while she struggled not to cry in pain and suffering from injuries far more grievous than East's had been. There wouldn't be an _I told you so._

Even years in this Bloc wouldn't make him that callous.

.

.

.

* * *

><p>- The Inner German border ran from the Baltic Sea to Czechoslovakia, drawn out after the war to divide the Western Powers' spheres of influence from that of Soviet Russia's. Thousands of Germans who lived along this border were forced to relocate—often choosing to flee to the West. It is believed that over 1,000 Germans were killed in attempts to cross this heavily monitored and patrolled border from 1945 to 1989.<p>

- See prior chapter for details on East Germany's economic situation just after the War. At the end of 1952 and continuing until May 1953, there were talks and eventually passing of regulations that would encourage a higher work out-put for the same amount of pay for workers. If production deadlines were not met, employers were then able to cut salaries.

- See prior chapter on notes regarding increase of Soviet paranoia which was feared to bring another time of Purges to political opposition.

- Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin died March 5th, 1953, after being bed-ridden from a cerebral hemorrhage for four to five days. There have been rumors that he had, in fact, been assassinated. Recent studies from both American and Russian scientists lean toward the theory of his being poisoned which induced the hemorrhage. Georgy Maximilianovich Malenkov replaced Stalin as premier shortly after his death.

- The first of the protests during the uprising occurred June 16th when a group of construction workers went on strike when employers announced a pay cut due to not meeting the projected deadline. By June 17th, the protests had spread to over 500 villages in East Germany. According to the West German Ministry for Inter-German affairs in 1966, "513 people (including 116 "functionaries of the SED regime") were killed in the uprising, 106 people were executed under martial law or later condemned to death, 1,838 were injured, and 5,100 were arrested (1,200 of these were later sentenced to a total of 6,000 years in penal camps). It also was alleged that 17 or 18 Soviet soldiers were executed for refusing to shoot demonstrating workers, but these reports remain unconfirmed by post-1990 research."

- In memory of the rebellion, West Germany declared June 17th to be a national holiday called "Day of German Unity". After reunification in 1990, this holiday was then moved to October 3rd. The date June 17th, however, remains acknowledged in literature, poetry, arts, and even a street name—Straße des 17. Juni in Berlin.

- The East Germans were by no means the only ones to protest against the injustices of their working conditions. Following the shaky process of de-Stalinization after Stalin's death, there came the Poznań 1956 uprising (June 28th, 1956 - Poland) and the Hungarian Revolution (October 23rd to November 10th, 1956). Both also were met with Soviet force—Poland's death count well over 50, including a 13-year-old boy, Romek Strzałkowski; Hungary's, over 2,500 with 200,000 fleeing as refugees. Later on, there was the Prague Spring (January 5th to August 21st, 1968) that was put to an end by the Warsaw Pact invasion, casualties numbering "72 Czechs and Slovaks killed (19 of those in Slovakia), 266 severely wounded and another 436 lightly injured."

And these are but a few of the examples out there during this time period.

.

If any of this information is wrong or maybe just slightly off-target, feel free to correct me!


End file.
